


Jigsaw

by amfiguree



Series: Not the Boy Who Lived [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little peek into Harry's would-be life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jigsaw

**Author's Note:**

> Written for harry_and_ron's FQF on livejournal.

"Have you read the Daily Prophet?"  
  
Harry groans as he slumps against his chair, a mug of black coffee in his hands. "Don't let that be the first thing you say to me in the morning!"  
  
"Right," Ron says with a wan smile. "Sorry, mate. Let's try that again." He walks out of the room, and then comes right back in. He goes to Harry, dips him dramatically in his seat and kisses him. "Good morning, love. Did you sleep well?"  
  
The corners of Harry's mouth, despite his cantankerousness in the mornings, twitch dangerously, even as he sits up and begins to grumble. "Till you got up, yes. Then I couldn't get back to sleep either."  
  
Ron studies Harry fondly, but with weariness, as he slides into the seat beside him. "Part of the job," he says, and Harry hears the unspoken apology; he always does. "Drunken Veela trying to break into the apothecary."  
  
"Well, that's not something you see everyday," Harry mutters, amused.  
  
"No, thank Merlin." Ron sighs, heavily, and promptly drains the contents of Harry's mug, on which Harry is wise enough not to protest. When Ron puts the mug down on the table, his smile is gone, and Harry can see the lines of haggardness around his eyes and mouth. Suddenly, he feels very awake, and very much less irritable.  
  
"No," Harry says, before Ron can, "I haven't read it. Would you rather I avoid it completely for the next few days, or are you going to read it to me?"  
  
Ron presses his lips together in a tight, thin line, and his hand lingers in his own lap before reaching for Harry's. "Harry," he says to their intertwined fingers, "Diggory's dead."  
  
  
  
 _"Oi, look up! It's the Boy-Who-Lived!"  
  
"That's him, isn't it?"  
  
"It *can't* be!"  
  
Harry glanced up in the direction of the whispers, an annoyed frown creasing his face; it only settled deeper when he realised they were all staring. He rolled his eyes, then, sliding his cabin door shut, turning back to stare out the window into the warm sunshine, managing to catch Sirius giving him one last, long look, before taking Remus' hand and apparating, presumably, back home.  
  
Harry's stomach churned suddenly, and when the whispering grew louder even through the closed doors, he felt all the more alone.  
  
"Sorry." There was a quiet voice from the passage, and Harry started; he hadn't even realised that the door'd been reopened. "D'you mind?"  
  
If there was one thing Harry had inherited from Remus over the years, it was his uncanny sense of hearing what wasn't being said. And at that moment, Neville Longbottom was not-saying - not-screaming, in fact - "If this one starts watching me like the rest of them are, I'll bloody *jinx* myself!"  
  
"Make yourself at home," Harry replied, instead, casually tilting his head at the couch across him. He knew to leave well enough alone; he wasn't interested in Neville's history, anyway.  
  
"Thanks," Neville sounded relieved, and Harry couldn't blame him. He wondered, sometimes, what that kind of fame felt like, but his parents are dead, too, and he couldn't imagine what being hailed a celebrity for that very fact would feel like: like someone ramming him into a wall till he chucked his lungs up, probably.   
  
There was a hesitant, almost audible, pause as Neville shut the door again, and made himself comfortable. "Awfully noisy out there," he began, awkwardly, staring at the spot between Harry's eyes.  
  
Harry looked at Neville, assessing. "Yes," he replied, with just enough coolness to keep Neville from responding, without crossing the line between arrogant and aloof. "I expect it's because of you."  
  
Neville averted his gaze, fiddling with the folds of his cloak. When he looked down, his fringe parted slightly, and, without meaning to in the slightest, Harry saw a hint of The Scar. Then Neville announced, "I'll catch a nap, I think," with enough cheerfulness to drive a swarm of Death Eaters running, and Harry looked away. _  
  
  
  
It's a solemn affair, as it should be, but the atmosphere is stifling, and Harry is having enough trouble keeping his hands quietly balled up in fists in his pockets, without the sobbing young woman next to him making things worse.  
  
He turns to her, just as she blows her nose, quite loudly, into her new mourning handkerchief. At least, it looks new. "Do you think you could _possibly_..."  
  
There's enough venom-slash-sarcasm in his voice that even after Ron leans over with a reassuring smile and grabs Harry's elbow, saying, "sorry, he's just a little, ah, upset," the girl backs away as she looks at them, obviously stricken.   
  
"I was just trying to get her to _shut up_ ," Harry mutters to Ron, out of the corner of his mouth, as they retake their positions, a dozen pairs of disapproving eyes trained as sharply on them as a dozen ready wands.  
  
"Harry," Ron says, voice crisp. "This is a _funeral_."  
  
It's the tone Ron reserves for 'particularly-necessary' moments - of which, as he's realised over the course of the thirteen or so years he's known Harry, can be in abundance - and Harry knows he's close to pushing all the right buttons and ending today with his own funeral.  
  
So he tries to pay more attention to Cho Chang, who's sobbing her words out more than she's actually saying them, but it's difficult. He wasn't close to Cedric Diggory, barely knew him, and if it wasn't for quidditch back in the days of Hogwarts, he doubts he would've remembered the name at all.   
  
In fact, Harry reflects, as he glances over at Ron, bowed head and back rigid, he's only here because Diggory was Ron's mate from work, because this reminds him that Ron faces this kind of peril everyday: the kind of danger that Harry only ever encounters in his worst nightmares.  
  
He's so absorbed in this train of thought that he doesn't turn till he feels someone say, "Hello, Harry," almost conversationally, and when he starts he realises that Neville's close enough to be breathing down his neck.  
  
Ron is wearing his best deer-in-the-headlights expression, the one he only uses to get out of neck-deep-shit situations. "Nev," he keeps his voice down. "I didn't think you'd want to - well."  
  
Neville shrugs, and Harry notes the way Ron has to avert his eyes from Neville's face for the split second his scar is visible beneath his dark hair. "Line of duty," Neville looks at the coffin, his eyes distant, and there is a short, telling pause. "At least he didn't die for me.”   
  
When Neville looks up at them, Harry feels like he's looking at someone else entirely.  
  
But then the icy glaze breaks, along with the smile that spreads across Neville's face, when he sees Professor Dumbledore. "Professor!" Neville calls, almost as if he's still a First Year, and as he excuses himself he nearly trips over his feet.  
  
Harry shakes his head as Ron stares after Neville.   
  
Some things never change.  
  
  
  
 _"I see you've managed to acquire yourself actual black robes, Weasley. How odd; I hadn't heard the ministry was promoting the staff," Malfoy paused, voice dripping with appropriate disdain. "Or is that made out of Muggle material?"  
  
"One more word, and your robes will be dyed blood-red, Malfoy!"  
  
Harry glanced out of his cabin at the sound of raised voices. There was a snigger, and then Harry interrupted: "That would be hell on your complexion."  
  
The four boys standing in the corridor whipped around, and Draco Malfoy's lips curved in a sneer. "Potter," he spat the word like it was venom. "My father said Black has been to see him again. I can understand envy, but it's becoming a frightfully unwelcome habit."  
  
"Yes, envy's exactly what it is," Harry replied coolly, even though his body had gone rigid, and his hand had snuck into his pocket in search of his wand. "Sirius throws up after each visit and swears he's going to quit his job."  
  
Weasley snorted, and Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Well, Potter, by the well-bred, it is generally agreed that people who condone werewolves--"  
  
"By generally, you mean your father,” Harry cut him off before he could finish, "Whose opinion is worth as much to me as a snapped wand. The only thing he and I will ever agree on, Malfoy, is how much of a nuisance you are."  
  
Malfoy's cheeks were pink, too pink to be attributed to the heat, of which in any case there was none, and as he stalked off, Harry heard Weasley mutter under his breath, "Wicked!"  
  
"Spiteful git," Harry said in reply, when Malfoy had gone.  
  
"Doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut," the red-head nodded decidedly, and Harry looked at him in something akin to interest. "One day I'll hex him into the middle of next year and bloody well leave him there."  
  
"You'd be doing him a favour. There's no other way he'd pass the First Year exams." When Ron chuckled, Harry couldn't help a grin, and he shocked himself by extending a hand, something Remus had been trying to get him to do for the past four years. "Harry. Harry Potter."  
  
"I'm Ron Weasley."  
  
"And alone in the corridor," Harry noted, frankly, as they shook hands.  
  
"I've been kicked out of my brothers' compartment. They're showing off again, and a First Year brother is too much of an embarrassment to keep around," Ron's ears were pink as he gave Harry a half-smile.  
  
Something in Ron's voice, if Harry had been listening closely enough, would have kept him from saying, almost wistfully, "It must be nice, having brothers."  
  
Ron snorted incredulously. "I have five and I still can't bring myself to say that."  
  
The edge showed, that time, and Harry didn't comment. Instead, in a move that surprised himself more than Ron, he said, "There's space in my cabin, if you like."  
  
"Thanks, mate!" Ron's wide grin lasted all the five steps it took to get back to Harry's booth. And the only reason it faltered was curled up on the couch, fast asleep, mouth opened as he snored lightly. Ron was still standing stock-still at the door, staring with wide eyes, when Harry sat down. "Isn't that--"  
  
"Yes," Harry interrupted, tiredly; if he had to go through all of this again...  
  
"Oh." Ron sounded almost in awe, but that was all he said, and when he sat next to Harry, he seemed to have recovered. Harry found himself unbelievably grateful that he hadn't been wrong about Ron. _  
  
  
  
"I think we should go to the Burrow," Harry tells Ron, as they return to their apartment, and Harry pulls Ron's robes off before Ron can collapse bonelessly into a chair. "Your mother will worry."  
  
"She always does," Ron says, with a soft, faraway look.  
  
"So don't give her reason to," Harry says, bluntly. "When something like this happens at work, you know how she gets."  
  
For once, Ron hears the _you know how I get_ that Harry doesn't say, and he looks up at Harry in wonder. "I'm all right," he tells him.  
  
"Yes," Harry says. "The problem is, it's worrying how much longer you're going to stay that way."  
  
Ron grips Harry's hand, gently stroking the unimpressive gold band on his fourth finger. "I know you worry," he says, his voice as gentle as the finger pads on Harry's skin.  
  
"Do I?"  
  
Ron just smiles, and presses Harry's palm to his cheek for a moment. "Come on, then. Let's go to the Burrow."  
  
  
  
 _Ron had positively seethed when he'd heard that First-Year Ravenclaw know-it-all, Hermeniny Grangor or Anemone Granger or whatever-her-name-was, condemn the 'improperness of having a First Year flying on the quidditch pitch like a maniac'.  
  
"She's a bloody Percy incarnate!" he growled. "She wouldn't know talent if it hexed her silly!"  
  
Harry shrugged as he circled the quidditch pitch once more, and then landed smoothly. "She can keep her opinions," his voice was acidic, and Ron knew that spelt trouble, "Till Ravenclaw loses against us this weekend." _  
  
  
  
"Oh, Ron!" Mrs Weasley flies at them, tearfully, as they dust the soot off, and Harry's reminded, as the breath is crushed out of his lungs by Mrs Weasley's motherly arms, that he's not the only one who worries about Ron, especially given his profession.  
  
"Mum!" Ron pats her awkwardly on the back, and tries surreptitiously to pull away. Harry doesn't have to look at him to know his ears are glowing red.  
  
Mrs Weasley hiccups as she holds Ron back at arm's length to look him up and down. "I'm sure I don't know how all this happens," she sniffs, mournfully. "Seven children and Percy's the only one who hasn't gone off... fighting _dragons_ and Veela and..." she trails off, and Ron winces as she grips his arm. "You've lost weight!"  
  
Ron gives Harry a helpless look over the top of his mother's head. "Err. I don't know, Mum. I expect I've just grown again."  
  
"Well, you come in this minute and - oh, Harry!" Mrs Weasley seems to only just notice him, and she goes to him now, giving him the same critical look all seven Weasley children are unceremoniously treated to when they visit their mother. Then she breaks into a wide, teary smile. "I'm so glad you could come. I heard about England's victory against Bulgaria, and that spectacular save! Arthur couldn't stop talking about it! We're so proud of you! Come and have some pie, both of you, and tell us all about it."  
  
  
  
 _"It's a little small, isn't it?" Harry glanced about the hall as Ron brushed himself down. It would sound cruel, if it had been anyone else, but Harry was only being painfully honest - a character trait Sirius was infamous for.  
  
Tact and diplomacy, Remus had found, were not very easy skills to impart, especially when the impartee did not find particular merit in learning them.  
  
Ron's cheeks were flushed, but he was used to Harry, so he only shrugged and said, "It's enough."  
  
Mrs Weasley turned from where she was unpacking Fred's luggage, and her eyes were narrowed. "It's home," she said, firmly. Fred asked her where his broomstick was, and she handed it over to him; she never took her eyes off Harry.   
  
He had to look away first.  
  
And later that night, as she was doling out Ron's soup, Ron smiled and murmured, "It's not much, but it's home," out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
Harry looked Mrs Weasley in the eye, and replied, "Yes." And suddenly one of the plates cracked and Mrs Weasley had to excuse herself, but not before Harry caught the edge of her mouth twitching pleasantly. _  
  
  
  
Being overwhelmed, as usual, by Mrs Weasley's good-natured fussing, now that she's managed to calm herself again, makes Harry smile as he follows her into the kitchen, where Mr. Weasley is tucking into dinner in order to fend Percy's account of 'how vital it is for cauldrons to be made of _just_ the right material'.   
  
The usual pleasantries are exchanged, and Percy presents them with a rare smile. "We wanted to go for the funeral, Ron," Mr Weasley offers haltingly. "But you know what it's like with the Diggorys."  
  
Harry knows, as well as anyone else in the room, that wizarding families often have such intertwined histories that long-standing grudges are the basis of any two wizarding families. More commonly, grudges are the basis even in _one_ family: Sirius and Narcissa are perfect examples.  
  
Ron smiles tautly, but he nods anyway. He's saved from replying when Mrs Weasley brings in two plates piled high with pie, and sets them down in front of the two men. "If you want seconds, there's plenty where that came from."  
  
Harry bends his head and begins to eat, because he understands that as well as Ron does: they're not getting away with anything less than three slices each.  
  
  
  
 _Remus put his spoon down and all but collapsed in his seat. "Thank you, Molly, but any more pie, no matter how delightful, and I'm going to burst."  
  
Mrs Weasley's look was appealing, but Remus smiled apologetically, and all was forgiven. Sirius leant over as Mrs Weasley took their plates and turned her back, and whispered, "I'll help you work it off tonight."  
  
Ron coughed as he concentrated very hard on his own dessert, his head bent almost parallel to the table, and Harry shook his head as Remus tried not to smile. Sirius' fingers danced slowly down Remus' thigh, hidden beneath the tablecloth, and they were only stopped by Mrs Weasley's reappearance in the room.   
  
Harry's guardians had reached a mutual understanding with the Weasleys, enough to ensure the continuation of Harry and Ron's three-year friendship, but Remus often wondered how much of that allowance was due to necessity, and if the rest was due only to tolerance. He wasn't about to push it.  
  
"Boys," Mrs Weasley cleared her throat, a moment later, as her husband exchanged a dark look with Sirius. "I think it's about time you went along upstairs. Harry's got some unpacking to do, hasn't he?"  
  
There was a squawk of protest from Fred and George as they, too, were made to clear the room. Harry heard a faint, faint, "Voldemort, returning" as he exited the room, and Ron, who was beside him, visibly jumped. As they climbed the stairs to Ron's room, Harry tried not to think about Neville's extra DADA sessions with Remus the previous year. _  
  
  
  
"This is why I moved out," Ron grumbles half-heartedly, as he stretches out beside Harry on the floor with a yawn. "Too cramped."  
  
They had manoeuvred the bed so that it was pushed right up against a wall, and the old mattress Harry'd slept on when he stayed during the school breaks was spread out more comfortably on the floor, big enough for the both of them, with the help of a little altering charm.   
  
"Hmm," Harry replies, distractedly. He's on his side, chin propped up on one arm, eyes fixed on Ron. There's a comfortable silence, and when there's no proper reply, Ron turns, only to find Harry still studying him. His mouth curves as he returns Harry's gaze. “What?”  
  
Harry pauses, and the barest hint of a smile touches his lips. "Nothing."  
  
"That look isn't nothing," Ron says, his voice containing a laugh, and he inches closer, fingertips brushing a strand of dark hair out of Harry's eyes.  
  
Harry's uncharacteristically silent as he catches Ron's hand before Ron can pull it back, and he stares at their twined fingers. "Eight years tonight," he mutters, his green eyes soft. He presses his lips to each of Ron's fingers in turn.  
  
This is the side of Harry that Ron's never been able to make Harry share with anyone but himself. He's glad he doesn't have to. He watches Harry's dark head, and tightens his own fingers round Harry's. "Harry?"  
  
When Harry glances up, his eyes hold all the oaths and promises they've never had to voice, and Ron kisses him softly on the mouth.  
  
When Ron lies back, they're still kissing, and Harry goes with him. Ron arches, and Harry slips his hand around to tug Ron's robes free. Harry's lips mouth soft words against Ron's skin, down his throat, his collarbone. Their robes fall, tangled together, and Ron sighs as Harry draws warm, wet patterns on his neck with his tongue.  
  
"Boys? I've brought you -- oh, my!"  
  
Then Ron is yelping as he sits up, throwing Harry off-kilter. "Mum!" he groans, utterly humiliated, as Harry scrambles with their robes and tries not to look _too_ inappropriate.  
  
"I'll just leave the blankets here, shall I?" Mrs Weasley's wearing an expression caught between amusement and embarrassment. "And I'll warn your father not to bother you."  
  
The door's shut again before either Ron or Harry can stop her, and as Harry looks at Ron, Ron is vaguely relieved that they both still have their pants on.  
  
Harry licks his lips and gets up, the mood completely destroyed. "Bed," he mumbles, the only sign he's embarrassed, and when he pulls the covers over his head, Ron looks down at his lap, mutters, “fuck,” and goes to settle his problem in the toilet.  
  
  
  
 _"Sirius seems to think there's something going on between us," Harry's expression was neutral as he lay down, staring up at the ceiling. It was a sign that Ron had come to understand meant confusion.  
  
"How d'you know that?" Ron turned over, in what had been dubbed his bunk at Harry's place, and stared at Harry from across the room. "Did he say something to you?"  
  
Harry blinked at the question. "Actually, Remus tried to have The Talk with me. And mentioned condoms in the drawer beside my bed. And said he'd managed to get Sirius to promise not to try anything to traumatise you before. Well. Before."  
  
Ron's ears turned bright, bright pink, and Harry didn't have to turn to know that Ron was absolutely mortified. The mere thought of Professor Lupin, the best DADA teacher Hogwarts had seen in years, saying any of that to Harry, was just...  
  
"Oh," was all Ron managed, faintly.  
  
"I reckon Remus will keep Sirius busy tonight," Harry continued, recklessly. "So plug your ears if you must."  
  
"Right," Ron muttered, swallowing hard. "Thanks, mate." He was silent as Harry turned out the light, contemplating, but there was no more conversation that night.   
  
In two hours, though, Harry would be awoken by a quiet, pensive Ron, who'd say, "Spend Christmas at the Burrow this year, Harry."  
  
And Harry, albeit groggily, would agree. _  
  
  
  
Harry's surprised to find himself awake at this ungodly hour, and when he sits up to listen, he realises it's because of the sound of Mr and Mrs Weasley's raised voices in the room across the hall. "Well, why not?" Mrs Weasley is saying heatedly, and Harry can imagine her gesturing wildly, just like Ron when he's trying to make a point.  
  
"We can hardly expect them to--"  
  
"It's only a few days longer!"  
  
Mr Weasley sighs, and Harry almost sympathises; he loves Mrs Weasley, but being trapped within a mile's radius from her when she's in one of her moods isn't something to be trifled with. "Molly, they're all grown up now. They'll be back for the family dinner next weekend. They have their own lives to see to."  
  
"I just thought, it would be nice if... the house is so _quiet_ now, Arthur, and I just thought--" Harry can hear the quiet tremor in Mrs Weasley's voice, and for a moment his heart sinks. "I miss our children."  
  
"Come to bed, Molly." Mr Weasley's voice is gentle, and Harry can picture them in his mind's eye, Mr Weasley holding his arms out to his wife, rubbing her back reassuringly. "We'll see what they say about it in the morning."  
  
There's a soft creaking of floorboards, and the quiet groan of the bedsprings, but it's only after a long while of thoughtful silence that Harry lies back down himself.  
  
  
  
 _Out of the smoke, as though from an old film, Fawkes emerged, his talons clutching to an exhausted Remus Lupin, clutching to an unconscious Neville Longbottom, still clutching to a small black book.  
  
Sirius rushed forward as Arthur and Bill Weasley released him, calling, "Remus!" and the room was suddenly tense as the members of the Order moved closer.  
  
"Albus," Remus swayed as Fawkes put them all gently down, and Sirius caught his arm instinctively, supporting him. "Neville is quite safe. He's only had a bit of a shock, and is suffering minor injuries."  
  
"From Voldemort?" Dumbledore enquired, quietly; he could see that Remus was more drained than Neville himself.  
  
Remus sounded wearily unsure. "Perhaps Fawkes could tell you, sir, since he's healed the worst ones."  
  
Dumbledore's smile was kind. "Then I gather your plan worked."  
  
"I'm only glad I wasn't too late." Sirius felt Remus lean against him more heavily.  
  
Dumbledore's bony hand patted Remus', his eyes quietly twinkling, and an audible sigh went up from the attentive audience in the room. "I'm afraid I've detained you too long. Sirius, I'm entrusting Remus and Neville to your care. Would you kindly take them to Madam Pomfrey? I trust she will have draughts for them both."  
  
Sirius nodded, silently assessing the damage Remus had done to himself. When they were out of earshot, he hissed, albeit half-heartedly, "When were you going to tell me about your ridiculously altruistic plan?"  
  
"You can lecture me later," Remus murmured, as his legs nearly gave way for the second time in as many minutes. "Right now I need sleep." _  
  
  
  
Ron handles the next morning with all the ineptness of a first morning-after, and it's only after Harry shakes his head and says, "don't be daft," that Ron relaxes and offers Harry an apologetic smile.  
  
"Oh well," Ron clicks his tongue. "Eight years and a day. Isn't too late to be celebrating, is it?"  
  
Harry smiles, then. "I don't think the shower's occupied."  
  
  
"Ihh hinggk uh wanshh ushh hoo shhday fhhor uh hhew dayshh," Ron says, later, through a mouthful of toothpaste.   
  
Harry turns off the shower, and pokes his head out from behind the curtains. "What?"  
  
"I think Mum wants us to stay for a few days," Ron repeats, after he spits in the sink. "I think she misses having us around."  
  
Harry stares at Ron's back, remembering, and then ducks back inside the shower. When he feels Ron's arms slide around his waist, he doesn't resist, because this is something they're going to have to get used to for the next couple of days.   
  
It's only twenty minutes later that Harry groans, and not for the reasons Ron would like. "Ron, we're going to be late for breakfast."  
  
And they are.   
  
They shuffle downstairs sheepishly, avoiding Mrs Weasley's knowing looks. The awkwardness is settling back in again, and the mood is only saved because Mr Weasley smiles at them with all the warmth he has, and says, "Pancakes or leftover pie, boys?"  
  
  
  
 _Harry blinked as Ron took an uncertain step back. "It's, err, Muggle tradition," Ron offered weakly. "I, err, didn't want to break it."  
  
Reasonable enough, Harry expected, since Mr Weasley was obsessed with Muggle habits and Muggle artefacts and Muggles in general; except Harry could see Ron's unsaid _oh hell and bloody soddin' Merlin_ written all over his face, and that didn't sound quite Muggle-like to him.  
  
"Kissing under mistletoe?" Harry asked, never taking his eyes off Ron.  
  
"Err, yeah. I read about it in one of Dad's books, and," Ron shrugged, his ears turning pinker than ever as he looked up and pointed, "Well, mistletoe."  
  
Except Harry remembered distinctly Ron shaking him awake one night not too long ago, quietly asking him to stay over for Christmas. Harry considered this, and then took two steps forward and nudged Ron half a step to the right.  
  
"Harry, what--"  
  
"Mistletoe," Harry whispered, in unnecessary explanation, and then he leant forward to kiss Ron again. _  
  
  
  
Sirius and Remus pop over in the afternoon for a chat with the Weasleys, and when they realise Harry and Ron are there, they break into smiles. "Well, that saves us the trip to your apartment," Sirius grins as he grabs Harry and hugs him before Harry can protest.  
  
Remus rests his hand on Ron's shoulder and asks, "You're both well?"  
  
Ron replies with a wordless smile, and Remus nods, satisfied, as he pulls a chair out at the table and waits till Sirius finally lets Harry go to push Sirius into it.   
  
"Ron." Sirius looks up at the redhead as Remus sits in the chair beside him, and motions for Harry and Ron to do the same. "I meant to have a word with you after the funeral, but there was some sort of commotion with the Malfoys." At the name, he rolls his eyes. "So there was that to take care of, and by the time--"  
  
Ron interrupts with a shake of his head. "I'm all right, Sirius."  
  
"Good, because I'm supposed to remind you that you're expected back at work tomorrow."  
  
Mr Weasley laughs first, and then Sirius' mouth twitches, and when Mrs Weasley returns into the room with a pot of tea, there's a nice stream of conversation going already.   
  
Harry reclines in his chair, and watches them all, and there's the faintest of smiles on his lips as Ron, keeping his eyes trained on his mother, reaches over to link his fingers with Harry's under the table.  
  
  
  
 _"Harry Potter. Grocery shopping. I never thought I'd see the day," Neville laughed, as he strolled into the Wizard Marketplace beside Harry.  
  
Harry regarded him, amused. "Well, I hope I haven't traumatised you. For some reason, Neville, I seem to regard you as a friend."  
  
Neville almost fell into a display of milk cartons, and he hurriedly straightened himself. "Honoured, I'm sure. But if you recall--"  
  
"Mister! You're Mr Neville Longb'tom!" At this interruption, both young men looked down to where a young boy, not a day over five, was tugging at Neville's robes. "I seen you in all the 'zines, Mister! Will you sign my arm?"  
  
There was an imperceptible crease in Neville's forehead, but he only gave the boy a tight smile and conjured up a marker and obliged before herding Harry off to the next Market section.   
  
"I hate when they do that," he muttered, rigidly. "I wonder how people can think I want this fame." He paused, faltering, and when he glanced at Harry, he licked his lips slowly, then parted his hair so his scar was visible. "When I got this - when I became the Boy-Who-Lived - sometimes I think it would've been better if Voldemort had finished me off as well. He killed my parents that night."  
  
"Bellatrix," Harry replied shortly, even though it wasn't a question. And suddenly, that helped Neville understand, understand Ron's unadulterated need to deal with Bellatrix Lestrange personally when they had finally caught her.   
  
"I always meant to ask you about that, the Chamber," Harry continued, as he reached casually for a box of Ron's favourite cereal, as if they were discussing dinner menus for that evening rather than the demise of the cause of their parents' deaths. "I know Remus was involved, because Sirius gets tight-lipped every time I try bringing it up, but I don't know what actually happened."  
  
"Professor Lupin came up with an idea," Neville said, after a long pause. He seemed to be recollecting some horrible nightmare. "All I did was fend Voldemort off for a while in the Chamber. He'd kept a younger version of himself as a memory in a diary, waiting for me. Waiting to destroy the Wizarding World again. And the Basilisk, the animal that Petrified all those students, it nearly killed me. I tried to fight it, but I was young; I had no idea what I was doing. And then it just backed off and left me bleeding on the ground. Voldemort was going to use my blood to raise himself again, you see? It was a brilliant idea, really. He didn't have to drink my blood, just pour it into his diary. He fed off the emotions put in the diary the same way he would feed off my blood. And then he'd be reborn. I thought I was dead, for sure.  
  
"But then Professor Lupin appeared. And, well, I'm not sure what happened, because I was so dizzy by then I could hardly see, but he cut himself. With Godric Gryffindor's sword. And he managed to soak the diary in his own blood instead. There was a struggle, I think, some kind of fight, and then all of a sudden the Basilisk collapsed, and Voldemort -- the real Voldemort -- was there." Neville stopped, abruptly, and his hands reached up to trace the scar on his forehead.  
  
"A mixture of werewolf and unicorn blood," Harry breathed, awed in a way he seldom allowed the world to see. "Remus was _brilliant_."  
  
"Yes," Neville said at last, with a hint of a smile, as his hands fell back to his side. "You've worked it out, have you? Voldemort used Unicorn blood to keep himself... alive, and Professor Lupin simply counteracted it with his own blood. And that was that."  
  
Harry almost snorted at Neville's matter-of-fact tone. Years upon years of terror, and it had ended with a solution so simple it was almost ridiculous.   
  
"No one will ever know Remus was the one who saved us all. They all think I'm the hero." Neville's bitterness brought Harry to, and there was a moment when he remembered the days when Neville used to have nightmares that everyone was either too afraid or too polite to bring up the next morning. His hand tightened on Neville's shoulder.  
  
"You are," Harry admitted, quietly, and left Neville staring incredulously after him as he continued to walk down the aisle. After all, Harry Potter never paid anyone compliments. _  
  
  
  
Ron laughs as he tumbles out of the fireplace. "Merlin, I'm glad we're home."  
  
Harry looks around their house, smiling to himself. They've lived here for four years, been married three, and he can still remember Ron's face when he proposed. Nothing fancy - no romantic music, no scattered flower petals, no confessions of forever love down on one knee - but it had been special all the same. Naturally, Ron's 'yes' had been the best part of the evening.  
  
"Ron?" he says, when Ron's finally stopped laughing.  
  
All Ron sees when he looks up are Harry's green eyes, and then they're kissing again. "Come to bed," Harry whispers, against Ron's mouth. Nothing fancy - no romantic music, no scattered flower petals, no confessions of forever love down on one knee - but it's special all the same.  
  
And naturally, Ron's 'yes' is the best part of the evening.  
  
Well. Almost.


End file.
